


The Dagger Society

by Idestroyedtheworldoops



Category: The Young Elites Series - Marie Lu
Genre: Canon Backstory, Canon Compliant, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:21:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25875043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idestroyedtheworldoops/pseuds/Idestroyedtheworldoops
Summary: Long ago, before roses or wolves, before societies or stars, there was a prince and a courtesan, meeting on a warm spring night.
Relationships: Daphne Chouryana/Enzo Valenciano, Raffaele Laurent Bessette/Enzo Valenciano
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	1. silk hiding steel

**13 Maggio, 1358**

_City of Estenzia_

_Northern Kenettra_

_The Sealands_

Raffaele Laurent Bessette

  
“Welcome all.”

Raffaele does not flinch at the sound of his madam’s voice. He shows no reaction at all; he keeps his expression closed and pleasant, as he always does. As he’s been trained to. He does not let his fear show on his face. He is not allowed that freedom.

“Fine people of Kenettra, I am overjoyed to introduce the next new addition to the Fortunata Court: Raffaele Laurent Bessette!”

The few eyes that had strayed from him to his madam as she gave her speech shift back, and he resists the instinct to gulp. Tens of thousands of people are packed in and around the Fortunata Court. All for him. The thought, the _fact_ , is as ridiculous as it is terrifying.

As his madam waxes poetic about his beauty and his value to her, his eyes catch on an odd light in the crowd. He has almost come to settle on a source for the warm _pink red white_ glow several times that night, and he has settled on the reality it is one of the many things that no one else around him can see. Now, he finally recognizes its source, or at least its anchor: the silhouette of a man, shrouded in a blue robe and full silver mask for the sake of this masquerade party.

He nearly slips, nearly lets his eyes narrow at the sight. Instead, he is pulled from his thoughts by his madam’s next words.

“Shall we start the bid at five thousand golden talents?”

Two thousand talents higher than she bought him for. Already returning on her investment, he sees. 

The bid is near instantly doubled, and Raffaele’s chest tightens. Still, he remains outwardly placid. 

The money doubles and doubles again, and then people finally start raising the bid by individual thousands, but it is already higher than he has ever heard in all his years of living at the court. Raffaele measures his breathing and his expression, suppresses the sick feeling in his stomach, but the higher the number climbs the more he feels faint. 

Suddenly, as quick as it had come, that strange energy disappears from his sight, somewhere too deep into the crowd for him to sense. His heart pangs at the loss of even that small distraction, the anxiety floods up into him and he feels like he’s going to crack. 

“One hundred thousand!”

The final bid pushes him over the edge. The serene expression on his face shifts to blank shock.

Quiet muttering spreads throughout the room, but there is no other sound for a long few moments.

“That is a jump of… fifty thousand golden talents,” his madam states, surprise and satisfaction in her voice. “Would anyone like to top it?”

Double the previous highest bid. There is no way in the world this person will not be disappointed when they realize what they’ve spent their money on. 

Raffaele is relieved for a moment when no greater bid comes in. At least it goes no higher; at least it ends there. But then he remembers this means it is time, and his terror returns tenfold. 

His madam charms the crowd some more as one of the older courtesans ushers him off the stage and towards his room. She helps him into the attire for this stage of the night, and gives him some comforting words and a smile before she leaves him alone. 

And alone he waits, listening for sounds of life coming towards his room. Full of anxious energy, he rearranges the sparse decorations, tugs at the already-made bedsheets, ensures over and over again his journals are out of sight. 

Before he hears anything, he feels that odd warm energy again, at the edge of his periphery and then gradually closer until it is joined by footsteps and, in time, a knock on the door. 

He hesitates for an unprofessional moment, trying to calm himself in the face of this unknown piled on top of every other fear he has about tonight. He takes a breath and tells himself it will be alright.

“Come in, please.”

A maid opens the door, and he is still taken aback to see the blue robe and silver mask of the mysterious figure from the crowd. He tries to make eye contact with her but she has already turned away before she closes the door and leaves him alone with his client.

His cheeks color unintentionally as the stranger removes his mask. He is actually very attractive, a young man who seems to be just Raffaele’s age with brown skin and deep, dark eyes that have a hint of a glow deep inside them. A marking, he thinks? The stranger removes his hood as well, and when the candle light touches his hair the gleam of it is red.

Of course, all of this is overshadowed by the threads of light that form a wreath around him in Raffaele’s second vision. The energy moves around and over him like flames clinging to a log, and the feeling of the energy so powerful and so close is almost the same as standing the same distance from a bonfire. 

He flushes as he realizes he’s been staring for far too long without saying anything, or even making eye contact. He looks his client in the eye and gives the smile he’s been trained to give in this situation, a mask as real as the one the other man still holds in his hand.

The man nods once in acknowledgement. He does not return his smile. 

Finally the man steps closer, and folds his hands behind his back. His gaze does not leave Raffaele’s face; he does not think it has the whole time he has been in the room. 

“You noticed me in the crowd,” he says finally. “I saw your eyes following me around the room. Why is that?”

“I suppose I was drawn to you,” Raffaele replies, and this time his blush is completely intentional. Staged. He pairs it with a coquettish glance down, and is looking back up through his lashes when he asks, “What is your name, sir?”

“Enzo Valenciano,” he answers without hesitation. His voice is as striking as his face, Raffaele admits to himself, embarrassed, before he places the name and once again his facade slips.

“Your Highness?” he asks, all pretense of flirtatiousness lost in shock for the second time of the night. Indeed, he sees it now, the memory of the disgraced crown prince. 

Again he only nods in acknowledgement. He holds Raffaele’s gaze for another breath. “And I’m afraid I have no intention of fulfilling your debut night.”

Raffaele makes no attempt to regain his composure at that statement. He stares back at this man, the prince, the glow deep in his eyes and the light haloing around him. 

His mind runs over the last sentence spoken three times before he gives up entirely.

“What?” he says, posture falling.

The prince seems surprised for the first time as he watches Raffaele’s act drop. He blinks, but quickly recovers. 

“I just want to talk to you,” Enzo says, his composure softening but still businesslike. 

Raffaele narrows his eyes. _You could have talked to me at the masquerade_ , he thinks; there was a period of time before the auction began where he was allowed to float through the crowds. And one does not drop six figures on a conversation, even one they could not have had for free.

He does not know what game the prince intends to play. Does he wish to pretend they are colleagues, acquaintances who develop true feelings over the course of the night? Before the act begins? 

Raffaele suppresses a shudder at another idea. Does he wish to catch him off guard? To lull him into security and then force him down- does he covet the thrill of that? The violence?

His gaze remains steady on the prince's face. He does not let any of his suspicions show in his eyes, but he has quickly lost his taste for the art of seduction as well, as much as he knows he might be penalized for that tomorrow. The prince does not speak again, waiting, it seems, for a reply.

Finally, Raffaele exhales. “Fine.”

He turns away from the prince and sits down, not on the bed but on one of the two chairs of his modest room. He gestures with a flourish towards the other. “Let us talk.”

The prince looks unsure for the first time that night, off put by Raffaele’s briskness. Raffaele keeps eye contact, impatient, challenging, and in only a moment the prince joins him on the other chair. 

The blue cloak still hangs around his shoulders, hood down, and the silver mask rests in his lap. Enzo must see him look towards it.

“It was my mother’s,” he says. “She liked to put on plays with my sister and I when we were all young. It is one of the things I was allowed to take with me.” He still does not smile; if anything he seems troubled by the memory. The deeper red of his energy becomes more obvious, then the white. “Suppose that I am lucky it fit. I wouldn’t have had anything else to wear.”

“Your sister,” Raffaele says, tilting his head. “How generous of Her Majesty to allow you reentrance to the city, Your Highness. After all this time.”

Raffaele is baiting him, and Enzo seems to notice. His frown deepens, and he sets the mask down on his arm rest.

“I think you know that is not what has happened,” he says. “Forgive my rambling. I suppose I may be nervous.”

“You should be,” Raffaele replies automatically, the weight of his fear and stress and frustration emboldening him. “You know that I could have the Inquisition informed of your presence here before you were able to leave the building, Your Highness? I do not imagine the Queen or the King would take kindly to you violating your banishment.”

Enzo gives him a measured look. His expression reveals nothing, but the light glowing deep in his eyes flares. “I came to your auction tonight in search of something. I have been searching for this something quite a while, and I believe… I hope I may finally have found it.”

Raffaele narrows his eyes. Is the man really just struck with him? Like so many others before? He would have assumed that in the first place, and he’d like to have been spared the emotional turmoil of the last few minutes if it was simply to end in a love confession.

Raffaele smiles, putting the act back on. Best to get it over with, then. “And what would that be?”

The prince stares at him. “A Young Elite.”

Raffaele’s heart drops down to his knees. 

_Oh. Oh, oh, oh._

He freezes on the pleasant smile he’d been giving, determined not to let a change in composure give this away. 

_That_ , then. It is a relief, in a way; this explains it all. The prince doesn’t want to play with him, to beat him or tear him apart. He just wants him dead. 

_How did he know?_ he thinks, but of course, it doesn’t matter. 

He notices out of the corner of his eye that one of his candles has burned out. He smiles at the prince, and in the same breath rises with practiced composure to go and replace it, in doing so turning his face away from Enzo completely.

He struggles with the tinderbox; he has never been good with these.

With his back still turned, he finally says, “Were you in the square last night, Your Highness?”

There is a pause. If he had to guess he might say the prince answered nonverbally before remembering he could not be seen. “No,” comes his answer.

“Three _malfetto_ children were burned for the suspicion they had powers from the gods,” he says. He looks down and to the left. “Your sister the queen has made it a crime punishable by death to have such talents.”

The money he would get from turning Raffaele in to the Inquisition would barely even scratch the hundred thousand talents he spent to get him alone. He cannot be in it for the reward. 

“That, I know,” the prince replies, his voice grim.

To regain his sister’s good graces, then? A fine peace offering, a real Young Elite, the first the Inquisition may ever have possessed. He may even think it could get him a place in the palace. A stepping stone to getting back his throne, if that is what he wants. Enough bribery and flattery can get you nearly anywhere with nobles, he knows.

What a shame for the prince, then, that he’ll have no way of proving it. There could be no noticeable difference between Raffaele and the children executed in the square last night, or any other. He will not be a pawn sacrificed in some dejected royal’s bid to regain power.

Raffaele presses his lips together. The candle still won’t light for him. He has others he can try.

“Then you know what a fool one would have to be,” Raffaele says, letting his words come out close to an insult, “Ever to reveal such a thing.” 

He is overwhelmed by warmth before his sentence is finished.

That energy has crept up behind him and back into his vision. He can feel it surrounding him like a hug, and just has time to register the candle light all on its own before the entire room becomes bright as day.

Raffaele slowly turns, seeing on his way that every lantern and candle placed throughout the room has been haloed by these threads of energy, and come away burning bright.

Once he has turned the full one-hundred eighty degrees to face the prince again the threads are retreating back into him, writhing in place surrounding this man’s body as they have since Raffaele first saw him. The fires remain lit even after the energy has left.

Raffaele finally settles again on the prince’s face. 

For the first time Raffaele has seen, he is smiling. “You may think me a fool, then.”

Raffaele stares. He has never encountered an energy like this before. He has also never encountered another Young Elite. 

The prince keeps eye contact with him. The smile on his face is amused and a little smug, but it is also patient. He allows him time to process.

Raffaele takes a deep breath and holds it for a moment. "Okay," he says in a small voice. He breathes again, then, a little stronger, "Alright."

The prince nods. “Was I wrong in my assumptions, then, Master Bessette?”

Raffaele’s eyes follow the movement of the prince’s vibrant red energy. “No.”

He hesitates for one more moment before turning to his dresser, pulling out the three tomes he keeps shoved between the drawers, turning back around and sitting on the bed. 

The prince raises his eyebrows, but Raffaele gestures impatiently for him to sit beside. 

“If I may,” Enzo says, looking from the books back up to Raffaele, “I would truly like to know what you can do.”

Raffaele looks up from his books at the prince and frowns.

“You are a Young Elite, aren’t you? Did I make my intent unclear?” his tone was more worried than threatening.

“I understand your intent perfectly, Your Highness,” he says quickly. He sighs. “I simply question how to explain it.” 

“Let’s start with this, then,” the prince says. “How did you recognize me in the audience tonight?”

Raffaele pauses. 

He pulls out the pencil tucked into the first volume and then flips to the first blank page. He shades out the silhouette of a cloaked figure.

“This would be a much better visual aid if I had colors,” Raffaele says, half to himself. In no time at all he is able to turn the book around and show the prince a sketch of the fire-like aura that surrounds him.

“I saw this, when I looked at you in the crowd. I still do when I look at you now. I thought I’d never seen anything like it before, but…” 

He looks down and out of the corner of his eyes. His mind removes it from his vision by default, like it does with one’s nose, but when he tries to look he can see the teal and pale blue threads winding around his own silhouette.

He flips to another page, with a sketch of his younger self surrounded by those threads, tighter and less magnificent than the prince’s but there all the same.

“And what do you… _see_ when you look at anyone else?” the prince asks.

Raffaele almost laughs. He doesn’t have a drawing for this- it’d be terribly unhelpful, especially with all of it in pencil, so instead he turns to a page charted with notes. 

“Mostly just them. Nothing so awe-inspiring as your energy, certainly. But within them, near their hearts…” Raffaele traces his fingers along the notes. Terribly childish of him really, but things can grow rather boring here. Besides, he _was_ a child yesterday, and all the days before. He is glad to have allowed himself this.

“‘Willem is secretly furious at Mattheo for wearing the same shall as him’,” Enzo reads, “‘Arianna is overcome with passion every time the Baron enters the room, I fear she may be developing true feelings’.”

“I feel what others feel,” Raffaele stops him, taking the book back and regretting this example. “I can see it, plain and clear as you can see this room. Anger is usually orange, sometimes red, passion is red-pink, happiness is dark blue- but there are so many different blues, it’s ridiculous. And if I try...”

Raffaele trails off. He doesn’t want anyone to know this, certainly not here or like this, but the prince showed him his powers. The least he can do is tell him the full scope of his own.

“Sometimes, I can change them.” He says. He frowns, deeply frustrated. “But only to the good ones.”

The prince has been looking on at him with rapt attention. He blinks, now. “The good ones?”

Raffaele sighs deeply. Once again he looks at his own energy, the soft colors shining with whatever light they feed off of. “I can make people feel confident, or comfortable, or calm. I can make them feel… enamored, as well.” He flinches at the memories. 

How he has tried, over and over again, to make people afraid of him. To counteract the supernatural attraction people feel towards him against his will. He can feel others' grief, their pain, their anger and fear, but he can never manage to cause it. If he tries to draw up the black or orange or red threads all he will get is a sharpened intensity in how those around him are drawn to him, a sickening bent that will inspire people to be more… insistent in their pursuit. 

“Show me.”

Raffaele’s eyes snap up, pulled from his thoughts. The prince has his hand held out to him.

Raffaele looks into his eyes. The prince looks curious, his easy amusement back. 

Raffaele feels sick. _He showed you his,_ his mind tells him, _you owe him this._

He imagines the prince’s friendly smile turning hungry. He can see in his mind’s eye the light of his eyes turning from respectfully inquisitive to bleary with passion; taking him, as so many have tried, with no madam there to interfere now, as is his right, to use what he paid for-

“I don’t want to,” Raffaele rushes out before his thoughts can spiral deeper.

The prince blinks, and lowers his hand. “Why not?” 

Raffaele folds his own hands together. “I… cannot control it with perfect accuracy. And it is not something I know how to reverse.”

Enzo seems to consider this.

“You think I’m going to hurt you,” he says.

The prince’s voice is level, but Raffaele still hangs his head in shame.

“I do not think ill of you, Your Highness,” he says. “Many before have been moved to obsession because of my energy. It is no one’s fault but my own.”

“Look at me.”

Raffaele looks back up at the prince from where he had hung his head. The look in his eyes is positively incensed, though the rest of his face is a cold mask. He shrinks away from the fury in the prince’s eyes, how the dark red parts of his energy overwhelm the others for a moment.

“You are not to blame for such things,” the prince says. “If any have made you feel that way they do not deserve to look at you. To so much as breathe near you. To breathe at all.”

Raffaele blinks. He is not angry at him? And what place does he have to be angry _for_ him? They’ve met only tonight. Raffaele’s feelings should not be his concern. 

“Do not show me your powers, if you do not wish to,” the prince continues in Raffaele’s silence. “I trust you. I will not require proof of the things that you have shared with me tonight. But if you chose to, I want you to understand that I would never _force_ myself on you. That is not a normal reaction to anything, supernatural or otherwise, and anyone who says it is does not deserve to continue living." 

Raffaele's heart beats quickly in his chest. The fire in Enzo burns bright, inches away from him and just as bright as it was in the beginning. How naive, he thinks, to believe that it matters what anyone says or does to Raffaele, beyond whether his madam allows it. Does the prince know where he is? Who he's talking to?

"What are you doing here, Your Highness?" Raffaele asks. "Really?"

The prince's energy visibly cools, the stormy red threads retreating in favor of the glimmering white ones. _Ambition_.

He pauses in thought for a moment. His eyes never leave Raffaele's, and he can see his thought process working. He wants something, that is clear, and Raffaele waits with a sickness in his stomach to find out what. 

"Why are _you_ here, Master Bessette?"

Raffaele furrows his brow. 

"I suppose it makes sense, with your power. You can catch quite a fortune this way, clearly. But is that all?"

Raffaele blinks slowly. The prince is completely serious. He seems like he is working towards a proposition. _Foolish, sheltered royal, he really doesn't know._

Raffaele laughs. It is not the coquettish measured laugh that he has been trained to give but full on guffawing over the absurdity of this situation, the million status quo changes he's been forced to handle on this already most stressful night of his life.

Enzo has leaned back away from him. He does not feel angered at being laughed off; if Raffaele can feel him correctly through his Elite energy he would say he was embarrassed.

He finally looks back up at the prince, and his cheeks have joined his eyes and hair in their red tint. Good.

"I assume not then," he says quietly.

"No," he says, not bothering to add 'Your Highness'. Raffaele takes a deep breath and comes out laughing again, but less this time, until finally he can say:

"No, I am here, _Your Highness,_ because it would be illegal to leave. I am the property of the court. Of its owner."

Raffaele watches the prince's face scrunch up in confusion. It feels like a solid minute of that same expression before he says, "That's impossible. That's- _that's_ illegal, in Kenettra and all her surrounding countries, it has been for- centuries!"

Seeing the man who'd been so collected this entire time stumble over his words almost makes him want to laugh again, but the content of the conversation makes him suddenly sad. What a life this prince must have lived, completely oblivious.

"They must have put you up in quite the isolation, Your Highness," Raffaele says, sadder. "Legalizing the trade of…" Raffaele never refers to himself this way, it makes his skin crawl, but it is the way to get the point across. "Slaves was the King and Queen's first fix for their failing economy."

The flame in his eyes sparks again at that. "She-" Enzo exhales sharply through his nose and stands up. At first Raffaele thinks he's going to leave the room, but instead he paces the length of it like a big cat. 

Raffaele sees all three of the colors in his energy roiling in equilibrium, burning brighter as he works himself up.

"I didn't think it was this bad," he hears him mutter, "I knew she was bad, but-" he stops himself at one of Raffaele's bedposts. "This. _This_! To fix what _she_ did by cutting off trade with the Beldish, all to keep up this horrible myth so she can-” Actual, real fire sparks around the prince’s hands for a moment, and Raffaele pulls his books closer to him. 

“And the Beldish- snakes, obviously, but the last thing want to do with a snake is _poke_ it! We cannot afford to walk into a war right now, certainly not as we are- She’s murdering innocent people, _children_ in the streets, as a scapegoat for her own- _myriad_ crimes-" 

Raffaele listens to Enzo's ranting with a straight face. He has never let himself be angry about his lot. If anything he got angry when he realized how his mother was cheated out of the money he was worth. He has never considered anyone who came into this place might feel this… moral outrage. He doesn’t know how to feel about it. But looking up at the prince now, openly criticizing every decision the Queen has made since she rose to the throne, as if they were not absolute, as if they were _wrong_ , he feels strange. For the first time in a long time, he feels like he could have something more than this.

“It is a shame you are the one the blood fever touched, Your Highness,” Raffaele says, his soft voice cutting through Enzo’s continued tirade. “I am sure you would have been a better king.”

Enzo stops talking when Raffaele interrupts him. He looks down at him with wide, dark eyes. Raffaele watches the white threads in his energy draw up to the surface, glowing and shifting in a halo around him. 

Raffaele tilts his head at the expression on the prince’s face. He looks caught off guard. Beneath the heat of his Elite energy, Raffaele feels hope.

“Your Highness?” Raffaele asks.

Enzo stares levelly at him for another beat.

“I’m going to kill her.”

Raffaele blinks. This is not the impassioned declarations he was hearing just moments ago. This is quiet, serious, the hushed whisper of a closest-held secret.

Enzo keeps eye contact with him when he says, “I am going to kill her, and I want your help.”

Raffaele’s heart beats so quickly in his chest. The bright slashes of light burn in the prince’s eyes, and Raffaele watches the heat wax and wane. 

“Okay.”

Enzo blinks and leans back, away from the bedpost. “Really?”

Raffaele nods. “Tonight?”

Enzo looks into his eyes for another moment before exhaling. “No, not tonight. I need others at my back for that. Many others.” He sits back down on the bed. “I did not know what I was going to find tonight, but now I know why the gods sent us to meet here. You can find them for me. Once I have a battalion of Elites at my back I will take out my sister and her husband, and everything she has done to torment the people of my country to service her own purposes will be reversed. Every _malfetto_ in the country will know freedom from prejudice, every man, woman and child will be free to live their lives as they wish, and prosperity will flood back into Kenettra. But I cannot do it alone. I need your help.”

“You want me to recruit for you,” Raffaele says.

“Yes,” Enzo says, “And I will grant you anything- riches, freedom, fame, the entire world, if you desire. Anything, if you do this with me.”

Raffaele knows when people are lying. The duplicity is visible, green and orange and yellow on their hearts. He sees none of that now. The prince’s energy is open and warm and pink, vulnerable and genuine. 

Raffaele appreciates the prince’s continued pitch even after Raffaele already agreed to commit treason. If Enzo had led him up to the palace and asked him to… watch him kill the queen? Hold the knife himself? He would have done it. What has he to live for? 

This is going to be harder. This is going to require living. This is going to require subterfuge and seduction and secrets. Devoting his life to this cause, this man, this prince. This Elite. A horrible risk. A horrible responsibility. 

But if they can _do_ it? If they can win?

He looks around at his candlelit room, and back at the light in the prince’s eyes. 

_Freedom_ , he said. _The entire world,_ he said. _You may think me a fool_ , he said.

And oh, he does. This man who thinks he can save the world. Thinks he needs _Raffaele_ to do it. 

Raffaele nods, his eyes never leaving Enzo’s. “I will follow you.”

Enzo stares into his eyes for another moment, searching for lies or jest. He finds no such thing. Finally he lets out a long breath, and smiles.

He rises from the bed and holds out a hand. “Come with me.”

Raffaele tilts his head, curious but unafraid. “To where?”

“Out of this place,” Enzo says, as if it should have been obvious. “I will not let the Inquisitors find you, I promise.”

Raffaele blinks slowly. He runs over Enzo’s words a few more times. When he knows he understands his meaning, he feels his heart rise into his throat. He had thought-

But of course, this justice-minded prince. He is not thinking of strategy. The prince wants to help him, to save him, and Raffaele wants to cry. He wants nothing more in that moment than to take Enzo’s hand and leave this place behind, trade helplessness for uncertainty. 

But the world. For the first time, Raffaele believes that the prince really does need him. He will never manage to revolutionize the world if he puts the individual over the whole. If they want to do this- and Raffaele knows in his heart as he does not take the prince’s hand that he _wants_ the future the prince has promised him, a world where he has power, a world that is safe and open and free- 

If they want to succeed, sacrifices must be made. If he wants that world, he must live in this gilded cage a little longer.

“Your Highness,” Raffaele says, a slight shake in his voice as he mourns the loss of this quick escape. “How do you expect me to sway others to your side if I am hiding in the shadows?”

The prince furrows his brow, still not lowering his hand. “There are people in those shadows. Do you really think you will find so many Young Elites among the patrons of this court?”

“If you want to take the country you will need more than a small army, Your Highness,” Raffaele says. “You will need to form bonds. A simple violent coup will gain you nothing in the long term; nobles who benefited under the King and Queen’s rule will stir up unrest in their cities until you have revolt on your hands. If you are going to claim the throne, you must have those people already on your side, ready to sing your praises- many of them, if not all. And I may not have met another Elite within these walls before tonight, but I have met plenty a person of status.”

Enzo stares at him. “You are not asking me to leave you in this place. You are here against your will.”

“I am. But what better place to form political alliances than in one’s bed?” Raffaele smiles wryly, but Enzo looks stricken at his remark. Raffaele sighs. 

“When you are king, I will leave this place. I will leave it swiftly and gladly.” He can sense Enzo’s white threads flare at his first word. When, not if. “But for now, I shall stay.”

Enzo looks at him for a long time. He finally brings his hand back to his side. Raffaele can see the prince’s emotions roiling even beneath the glow of his Elite energy, guilt and gratitude and hope in equal measures.

“What, for tonight, then?” he asks.

Raffaele tilts his head again. “You will want to arrange another meeting with the madam on your way out. I’m afraid you’ll have to continue to pay to see me.”

“ _That_ is not my concern,” Enzo says, and Raffaele can feel his discomfort at the situation. “I will be back for you soon.”

“Good,” Raffaele says. 

The two of them stand in silence for a moment. Raffaele glances out his small window at the three moons, still high in the sky.

“So,” he says through the silence. He thumbs the pages of his still-closed journals. “We have the night. Do you still want to talk, Your Highness?”

Raffaele gleaned more joy from the little he got to share of his observations then he could admit in the moment. Of course, he cannot blame the prince if he wants to leave now that the business is done-

“Of course,” Enzo says. He looks again at the books and then back at Raffaele, his mood slowly lightening. “What else can you see, Raffaele?”

***

The sunrise sneaks up on them. Raffaele still has so much to say, but as the sky turns from black to blue he knows the time Enzo paid for will soon be up. Enzo does as well. 

“You will see me again,” he says. “As soon as is possible.”

Enzo rises to his feet, and pauses before he turns towards the door. 

“You can still leave with me,” he says, more a reassurance than an offer. It still hurts Raffaele’s heart to refuse.

“I will,” he replies. “Soon.”

Enzo nods. Without any further ceremony, he turns and leaves Raffaele’s room.

The air feels different with the prince gone. Raffaele resists the urge to watch the flame of his energy slowly trek away, and instead turns his attention to his bed. He needs to sleep. 

“Oh,” Raffaele blinks and pulls a long blue cloth from atop his sheets. The prince’s cloak, shed at some point during the night. He turns and sees his silver mask still resting on the arm of his chair.

“Your Highness? You-”

Raffaele opens the door to his room, but the hall is already empty. Of course. He can feel the prince’s energy already growing distant. 

“Already up?”

He jumps, and sees the same courtesan who had helped him get ready last night tilting her head at him, her own door ajar beside his.

“... Still up,” he says honestly, letting her fill in lies for herself.

She laughs softly, but there is a sadness in her eyes. A concern. “Not so bad?”

He looks down at the costume he still holds.

“No,” he gives her a smile that is only half forced. “Not so bad.”

He goes back into his room and sits down on his bed. He turns over the mask and cloak in his hands. The sun is cresting over the horizon. He sets the mask delicately atop the folded cloak and falls back into his untouched pillows. 


	2. to be human is to be a child of the gods

**02 Juno, 1358**   
_City of Estenzia_   
_Northern Kenettra_   
_The Sealands_

Raffaele Laurent Bessette

  
“You will be leaving the court today.”

Raffaele stills unintentionally, and his madam notices.

She has come into his new room this morning to help him get ready for the day, an infrequent but not unheard of ritual. 

“Now Raffaele,” she says, squeezing his shoulder. “You knew this was coming. It is a perfectly normal, perfectly safe part of your role here. Your client will be here momentarily, and he will take you back to his home until late evening. I expect you to be just as professional as you would be if you were here within these walls, do you understand?”

She squeezes him again, and he stops himself from pulling away.

“And look on the bright side,” she smiles, “Once you return this evening you’ll have the night free! I would not see you serve multiple clients in one day,” she gives a short laugh and finally lets go of him. 

“I understand, madam,” Raffaele bows his head to her. He holds all of his anxiety inside; it would do no good to show weakness in front of her.

“Make me proud, my dear,” the madam strokes his dark-and-sapphire hair. “I will greet you upon your return.”

“Thank you, madam,” he says. He feels hot all over. His madam smiles at him and gracefully exits. 

He closes his eyes and sits down on his bed. He cannot prevent the stories that stir up in his mind of courtesans who never left their clients’ homes alive. He doesn’t know what undo fury people come to feel about sex workers in order for such a thing to be so common, but darkness weighs on his heart at the thought that he can do nothing to avoid it. If someone decided to take his life or to do anything else to him they liked, he would be powerless to do anything about it. 

A knock on the door startles him out of his thoughts. He sits up straighter and fixes his face into a pleasant mask before calling, “Come in, please?”

Like she does every time, a maid opens his door. The figure that steps in before she closes it wears a dark hood, and Raffaele realizes too late that the heat he’d been feeling was not from fear at all.

Prince Enzo’s eyes catch on Raffaele’s new surroundings before they land on him, and Raffaele takes that opportunity to slouch his shoulders and let out a long sigh.

This makes the prince’s head turn, and Raffaele meets his eyes. He does not let the smile he wants to show onto his face, despite his joy and relief. That would be. Unprofessional.

Instead, he stands and bows, because he is in the presence of royalty again, and he should have done that as soon as the prince entered the room.

“Your Highness,” he says.

“Raffaele,” Enzo nods to him as their eyes meet again. 

“I have some things to show you,” Raffaele turns and pulls a bundle from within his dresser before facing the prince and setting it on the bed.

“Oh,” Enzo says. The top is clearly the same sleek blue cloak he wore to the masquerade, and when Raffaele pulls it away from the rest of the pile it becomes clear it is wrapped around the silver mask. “Thank you.”

He reaches out for the costume, but Raffaele pulls back, and the prince raises his eyebrows.

Raffaele’s cheeks color, embarrassed. “These are mine,” he says, and quickly pulls an identical set from the bottom of the bundle. “These are yours, Your Highness.”

Enzo’s eyes widen as he takes the costume. 

“I am allowed to use a seldom amount of the money I make,” Raffaele explains, “As long as the madam approves of it. I was allowed to have these commissioned. And…”

He turns to the rest of the pile- just the books the costumes had been wrapped around. His journals, of course, four of them now, the most recent hard-bound with rich blue cloth. He opens it, and for a moment feels childish again for being excited.

But when he looks over at him, Enzo is smiling. He touches the page with a gloved hand. 

“Colors,” he says, tracing the ruby, white, and rose threads painted around his silhouette. 

Raffaele’s eyes move between his drawing and the real threads of energy haloed around Enzo. They are nearly shoulder to shoulder, and the warm glow of it makes him feel completely enveloped, the light threads as overwhelmingly beautiful as he recalled when he was drawing. He could never match that without a different kind of magic, but he thinks he did a good job of letting Enzo see what he looks like. 

“Did you draw yourself, too?” Enzo asks. 

Raffaele reluctantly turns the page and shows him a picture of his own silhouette closely lined with teal and aquamarine threads. 

“As I said, not nearly as magnificent,” Raffaele says. Enzo tilts his head, his eyes not leaving the page as the sunlight catches the ink and makes it shimmer.

“Only blues?” he says. 

Raffaele nods solemnly. “There are far too many blues. It took me so long to notice the difference between curiosity and confidence.”

“There isn’t a direct correlation to our markings, then,” Enzo says, looking from Raffaele’s gold and green eyes to the drawing of his energy.

“No, I suppose not,” Raffaele says. He pauses. “Only in you.”

Enzo smiles a little bit, and Raffaele finally does, too.

“I am sorry I did not come sooner,” Enzo says, stepping back from the books and turning to fully face Raffaele. “By the time I spoke to the madam that morning you’d already been booked through to today.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” Raffaele bows his head. “I was not worried.”

Enzo nods. Raffaele senses guilt and discomfort from the prince. “Have you been alright here?”

“Of course, Your Highness,” Raffaele repeats quickly. He does not want to talk about that. The client who saw him the night after Enzo got quite a deal, he supposes. Raffaele has already forgotten the man’s face. 

Enzo studies his face for a long moment. Raffaele tries to look as honest as possible, but the hint of guilt does not leave Enzo’s energy, even as he looks away from him. “May I ask, do you change rooms frequently?”

Raffaele looks at the courtyard beyond his glass doors, the high curtains on his four-poster bed, the multiple closets and dresser. He sighs.

“Our lodgings are decided by the amount of money we bring in for the madam,” Raffaele says. “This is the biggest room we have. I suppose I have you to thank for that,” he says dryly. The irony, that the only person he’s met in the last five years he feels comfortable being sardonic with is a royal.

"Only me?" Enzo asks.

"The hourly rates we go for are set based on our virgin prices," Raffaele explains, eyes still on Enzo's face. "And your stunt to end the auction put mine at more than three times any other's."

Enzo raises his eyebrows. "Well, this… seems nice," he says, his discomfort not gone but seemingly ignored for now. 

"It is _obscene_ ," Raffaele says. He is only glad this room had been unoccupied previously; he cannot imagine the mortification of having unseated someone else. 

“Oh?” Enzo asks, amused.

"It is nearly an eighth of the property,” Raffaele whispers. “There is a sitting room back there, another parlor back there, that closet is the size of another room, and I am not even allowed to have any of the other consorts in here without the madam because she’s worried we’ll sully each other if we are left alone in private,” the angry red in Enzo’s Elite energy flairs at that, and Raffaele pauses, and looks out the glass doors. “I do enjoy being able to go outside, though," he finishes.

The prince simmers for a moment, and Raffaele waits for his energy to even out again. 

“Where are you taking me today, Your Highness?” Raffaele asks before the prince can have a chance to comment. 

The shift in his energy is as immediately noticeable as the last, though this time, it is the bright pink threads that spark with light. “I want to introduce you to a friend of mine.”

_Passion. Love._ Raffaele cannot help but be trepidatious, and he laughs quietly at the thought this energy scares him more than the other.

The prince raises his eyebrows, and Raffaele decides to pretend he was teasing instead of self-deprecating.

“A friend?” he asks.

The prince pauses in surprise for a moment, but then he laughs in turn. 

“You can tell even that? Just from a word?” he asks.

“I do not even need words,” Raffaele says, “I can see the emotion in you the moment you feel it; the moment it crosses your mind, it overcomes your heart. It rises up in you.”

For a moment he senses nothing but admiration and wonder from Enzo, and Raffaele’s cheeks almost color unintentionally. 

The prince shakes his head and continues, “She is the only other person in the world who knows of my power. The only person I had told before you.”

Raffaele suddenly chills. “I thought you told me you had never met another Young Elite before.”

“I hadn’t,” Enzo says, “She is not. She is unmarked.” 

Enzo seems to see Raffaele’s fear even through his clean-folded expression, as he continues, “I would trust her with my life. I have, many a time, every day since I met her.”

"And with mine?” Raffaele says, measured in his tone though inside he stings with betrayal. 

Enzo looks at him evenly. “I have told her I found another Young Elite,” he says. “She does not know your name or your power. She does not know where I am right now. If you wish, she never will. We can go anywhere today; we can stay here if you desire. But she knows everything about me, and she has never betrayed that. If you trust me at all, you can trust her.”

Raffaele takes a subtle breath. He trusts the prince. He has to, of course, if he desires what the prince can give him. And if this person is at all duplicitous, Raffaele will know the moment he meets her.

“Of course, Your Highness,” Raffaele says for the third time. “I apologize for my trepidation.”

“There is no need.” Enzo feels relieved and glad. 

Raffaele goes to put away his books and cloak, but Enzo says, “You may bring those if you like.”

Raffaele blinks over to him, the bundle held to his chest like a student.

Enzo hesitates. “I know she would be interested in your findings, and perhaps more able to contribute than I.”

Raffaele looks from his books to the prince and back. If anything happened to these books he would lose his life’s work. At the same time, sharing his writing is such a joy.

Raffaele places his second and third tomes back into the space between his drawers, then hugs the first and latest to his chest and turns back to the prince.

Enzo holds his arm out for Raffaele. "Follow me."

***

Raffaele has not been out on a street in so long. 

Enzo has a carriage take them around, but it lets them out in the shopping district. Raffaele and the prince walk along the busy streets, both of them wearing their hoods to hide their hair. 

The streets of Estenzia are dazzling at first glance, but as they continue walking he can see the cracks in the glass. The emotions coming from the thick crowds surrounding them are in small part wonder and joy, but there is far more frustration and anger and even, in the dark corners, despair. Raffaele's heart aches at the knowledge he could take that pain away if he chose to, but cannot risk it. One day he will be able to help. One day he will not have to be afraid, and neither will anyone else like him. 

For now, he walks quietly and waits.

Enzo stops him below a pale violet sign with the faded symbol of a leaf.

"An apothecary?" Raffaele asks.

Enzo nods and opens the door for Raffaele. Raffaele hesitates for a moment and reaches his energy inside; indeed, there is no trace of Elite energy, and the emotions he can sense seem to be a miasma of different blues. Before he can keep Enzo waiting too long, he enters through the open door.

The walls inside are lined with shelves full of jars of herbs and creams, with a counter against the far wall and a small table with two chairs in the corner. Behind the counter, a Tamouran man with early silver hair, far too old to have been marked, arranges small jars in a translucent cupboard.

As they enter he turns to see them, and when he sees Enzo a smile breaks out on his face. 

“Highness,” he comes out from behind the counter and opens his arms wide, “Come in, come in, you brought a friend?” The man’s train of thought seems to shift mid-sentence as he looks at Raffaele.

“Yes, sir,” Enzo says, nodding respectfully to this man. Despite his formality, Raffaele sees the warmth of familiarity blooming in him. “I wanted to introduce him.”

“Yes, yes, she is expecting you today,” he gives a big belly laugh and opens a curtain behind the counter. "She just went into the back to stock, you tell her I do not need her out here for a while." He smiles warmly at the prince. 

"Thank you, sir," Enzo says.

Raffaele looks between the man and Enzo with mild concern. More, confusion. But Enzo actually smiles at him, perfectly at ease, and so Raffaele follows him into the back of the store.

Once the curtain closes behind them, Enzo finally lowers his hood, and Raffaele decides to do the same. It is very cluttered back here, filled with scattered bookshelves, empty pots, glass and clay containers filled with raw ingredients, basins with water, mortars and pestles empty or still full of residue. Behind it all there is a winding staircase, partway blocked with boxes of things.

There is a rustling in the back of the room, and soon a figure comes into view carrying a tall stack of books with several fragile-looking items precariously atop them. She sets them on a desk and narrowly stops the pile from tumbling over. Once she has stilled everything she holds both hands over the pile for a moment and waits, then releases a breath. 

She turns in their direction and jumps, fully knocking it over.

She groans. “Like a damned _cat_.” 

Enzo laughs, more fully than Raffaele has ever seen him.

The girl shakes her head. She is wearing a long green dress, along with a violet headscarf which has come askew so that it nearly covers her left eye. As he watches she readjusts it into place.

Her eyes are dark brown, so dark as to almost be black. Her skin is lighter than Enzo’s but darker than Raffaele’s. Her hair is unseen, but he is sure it is the same rich dark as her eyes. 

The few strands of genuine irritation in her energy are accompanied by the light of passion, mirrored in Enzo’s energy as she playfully smacks him on the arm. The moment her eyes turn to Raffaele, though, all of that is snuffed out in favor of bright blue curiosity.

“This is-” the girl shakes her head, her gaze not leaving Raffaele. “You are-”

She cuts off. The feeling of having this girl’s full attention is distracting. He can tell now that the miasma he felt all the way from outside sourced in her energy. The blue of wisdom and curiosity brightens and spreads in her chest until Raffaele could nearly swear it was the color of her dress, could nearly mistake the metaphysical with reality. She does not look him up and down; her eyes remain locked on his face, never leaving his, and for the first time in a long time Raffaele finds the extended eye contact intimidating. Raffaele cannot read thoughts, but he can feel a million of them working in this girl’s head as she takes him in, vibrating with nervous energy.

“Daphne Chouryana,” Enzo nods to the girl for him, finally drawing her attention away. 

Enzo looks at Raffaele for permission and he nods subtly. Enzo nods to him in turn. “Raffaele Laurent Bessette.”

“Three names?” Daphne says in the same breath Enzo finishes speaking, her gaze returning to Raffaele.

Raffaele has not been made flustered in a long time. He breathes out, unable to bring himself to look away from the dark voids of her eyes. “The middle was my father’s.”

“Excellent," she says as if he's just shared something far more interesting. She leans back and looks from Enzo to Raffaele. “May I ask- what can you...?”

Raffaele looks at Enzo, and his expression requests nothing. He looks back at Daphne and her cloud of bright blue emotion and is struck with the desire to affect it. He thinks of the bright pink threads that coil between Daphne and the prince and knows that his power would not be able to permanently change her heart with the both of them standing right next to each other. Besides, the situation here in this storeroom is far less frightening than that of his room several weeks ago. 

He holds out his hand, and he sees Enzo raise his eyebrows. 

Daphne takes another glance between Enzo and Raffaele and then takes the hand offered.

He watches the bright blue threads shift slowly back to the pinks he had seen immediately upon arrival, but darker, tighter, artifice. Raffaele tilts his head and watches as the pupils in her eyes slowly overwhelm her irises. The difference would not be noticeable if you were not paying attention. Her breathing becomes slowly more shallow, and she blinks slowly. 

After a long few moments, she yanks her hand back. Just like he expected, the blue comes back with a force, burning away the remnants of red-pink the instant he lets go.

She looks at him wide-eyed before laughing hard.

“Okay!” she exclaims, leaning back on a shelf. “Wow! Alright,” she shakes her head, still laughing. “Damn!”

Raffaele folds his hands in front of himself and shrugs. He lets himself smile just a little bit. 

Enzo looks between them quizzically. "What did you do?"

"Only pulled on her heartstrings," Raffaele answers. "It seems she was indeed too resilient to be swayed."

"That felt incredibly weird," Daphne says, collecting herself. "Thank you." She stands up straight and looks at Raffaele. "I really had no idea Enzo was bringing you today. He hasn't been telling me nearly anything since the auction night," she glances toward Enzo wryly, then returns to Raffaele, "I apologize if I've been overexcited, it's just- _so_ good to meet you. I really appreciate you coming. I know it might be hard to believe that an unmarked woman is really serious about changing the world, but I am. I met The Alchemist once when I lived in Alamour with my parents, and," more strings of passion ignite on her heart, curiously, "She inspired me to pursue science and activism. That's why I came here to study with my grandfather, because Kennetra has so much work to be done on both fronts."

"Oh?" Raffaele says lightly, looking to the prince for a sign of offense.

"She's right," he says, serious. "If there wasn't plenty that needed changing about my country, I wouldn't need to take it back."

Raffaele nods and averts his eyes to examine her emotions. He certainly sees no stain of duplicity on her heart. Those stray pink threads have faded by now, and the teal blue of curiosity remains in it's blinding brightness, but it has begun to deepen, just a bit, into the sapphire of joy.

"It is an honor to meet you as well, Mistress Chouryana," Raffaele says. He bows his head.

She laughs again, more softly now. "Oh, Holy Aevites, it's just Daphne. If you want," she says.

Raffaele smiles politely. "Daphne."

"Oh!" Daphne grabs Enzo by his gloved hands and drags him over to a basin of water halfway across the room. Raffaele blinks, unsure if he is meant to follow. Daphne pulls the brown gloves from Enzo’s hands. Raffaele is not so rude as to gasp, but his eyes do widen slightly, and he is glad they are not looking at him. 

Enzo’s hands are covered in mottled red burn scars that turn his brown skin dark red. They look as if they were plunged into a fire and allowed to sit. 

Raffaele has long lived in fear of the consequences of his own power. For the first time, it occurs to him that all Young Elites may live with such a fear.

Daphne dunks Enzo’s hands into the basin of water and then turns to grab a clay jar. 

“We needn’t do this right at-” Enzo says, and Daphne hums loudly over him.

“We _need_ do this, Your _Highness_ , if you want to avoid dying of _infection_ before your sister even gets the chance,” Daphne says, motioning for him to dry his hands while she pops the lid off of her jar. She glances at him with that same almost-manic look in her eyes. “Sorry, Raffaele, he always leaves before I can remember to do this.”

“Of course. I do not mind.” He finally crosses the room to join them. He notices the prince is slightly embarrassed as Daphne carefully applies ointment to his hands.

“How did you two meet?” Raffaele asks, content to let them finish.

“Like this,” Daphne replies immediately, “Five years ago. By happy coincidence, my grandfather was hired to help with the burns when they were new, as none of the country doctors were helping. We were called out to the countryside to help, and…” she seems to finish and pats Enzo’s hands gently. “We got to talking.”

“You were both twelve?” Raffaele asks.

Daphne nods. Raffaele smiles, looking at the pink-red threads that join these two. It is a gentle image, meeting in childhood and becoming sweethearts by the cusp of adulthood. One that is, for all he can tell, completely genuine.

“And how did you two meet?” Daphne asks. She nudges Enzo. “I mean, I know the start. I told you you would find someone at that auction.”

“You did?” Raffaele says.

“Well, of course, half the city was there! More than half. I've lived here for eight years and I’ve never seen a gathering like that. And I was right, wasn’t I? So how did you realize?"

"I could see him watching me in the crowd," Enzo says.

Daphne raises her eyebrows and turns to Raffaele. "How obvious were you being? That crowd must have been so packed."

"I assure you it was very easy to see from up on the pedestal," Raffaele says.

Daphne opens her mouth to respond then shuts it abruptly. She goes through three different facial expressions, and he can see surprise and embarrassment blooming in her chest. 

"You're…" she says, then her head whips around to Enzo. "You!"

"Daphne-"

"You are the one who spent _one hundred thousand_ talents-" she looks at Raffaele- "No offense-"

"None taken, it is an obscene amount of money," Raffaele says.

"How much money is your sister required to let you have?" Daphne asks.

"More than that," Enzo replies evenly. 

"How much more?" She asks.

Enzo does not reply, but Raffaele can see the faintest hint of worry on his heart before he squashes it.

Raffaele sighs. "You are going to need sponsors. Of the political, social, and financial sort, it seems."

The mood in the room changes. "And have you gained any leads since last we spoke, Raffaele?" Enzo says.

Raffaele folds his hands. "I have been watching for those I can sway, and are a few that I am working on." He has been considering this possibility since the night he met the prince, it is seeming like more and more of an inevitability. "But as of now, I advise you to approach the madam of the Fortunata Court."

Enzo does not allow his expression to change, but Raffaele sees his dark red alignment to war thrum just like it did back in his room.

"I know her more closely than most people in this world. I know her desires, her whims, her secrets. She is one of the most wealthy women in the kingdom, and she has an incredible network of associates. It is the natural first choice." 

A moment of silence passes and Enzo's alignments do not settle. "I would not feel just working alongside such a person."

"Enzo," Daphne says, sounding disappointed in him. "Really? You are serious about this, aren't you? You can't pass up opportunities just because you don't like somebody." 

"You can use her and turn your back after the throne is yours," Raffaele says. "There will be no one above your head ensuring you keep every last one of your promises once you have secured your hold on the country."

Both of the other people in the room flash with surprise at the words formed in his soft voice.

Raffaele gets a rush of how good it feels to be seen as even a little bit ruthless. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a few years ago when I was writing my other tye fic The White Rose, near the end I wrote a chapter that touches on Raffaele and Daphne's relationship, and from that, I got the idea for a whole backstory fic. But, I was just finishing up writing 80k of fix-it au, so I was a little burned out on The Young Elites. I still wanted to do it someday, though.  
> It's someday! Idk how these two chapters got away from me, I did not intend for this to be at 10k already. I imagine this fic will be about 60k by the end of it, by I had pictured that over the course of like 30 chapters? So, we'll see how that goes.  
> Also: When writing about Raffaele's work, I try to make it clear that the problem is that he's in this position unwillingly, not the profession itself. Like I note in ch 6 of TWR, sex work should be legal. Slavery should not, is the thing here. Support sex workers.


End file.
